


and let the heavens hear it, the penitential hymn

by hihoplastic



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24451093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: She doesn’t quite know what to do. After dinner on the balcony, after they return to the TARDIS, after she showers and slips on familiar clothes.There’s so much she wants to say, even more she needs to hear. Her stomach still hasn’t settled and she can feel her hearts pick up every time he looks at her. She feels like she’s on a precipice, getting ready to jump and for the first time in as long as she can remember, she doesn’t know if he’ll catch her.Isn’t certain anymore that he wants to.
Relationships: The Doctor/River Song, Twelfth Doctor/River Song
Comments: 16
Kudos: 100





	and let the heavens hear it, the penitential hymn

**Author's Note:**

> \- for @songsandfairytales on tumblr, who requested "river/12 trapped in a closet"  
> \- title from leonard cohen's "come healing"  
> \- also [here](https://amillionmillionvoices.tumblr.com/post/618165198085373952/12river-trapped-in-a-closet) on tumblr

She doesn’t quite know what to do. After dinner on the balcony, after they return to the TARDIS, after she showers and slips on familiar clothes.

There’s so much she wants to say, even more she needs to hear. Her stomach still hasn’t settled and she can feel her hearts pick up every time he looks at her. She feels like she’s on a precipice, getting ready to jump and for the first time in as long as she can remember, she doesn’t know if he’ll catch her. 

Isn’t certain anymore that he wants to. 

The Doctor, of course, says nothing. She finds him in the console room, and barely has a chance to breathe before he drags her off on a completely unnecessary tour. He takes her to the 19th deck where there’s a perpetual desert storm and down below where there’s a room full of nothing but carousels; he shows her the replica of Coney Island and a new library and a meadow with thousands of butterflies. 

“Not actually butterflies,” he admits as one lands on his arm. “Tiny robots.” 

He grins, like it’s a huge secret he couldn’t wait to share, and oh, how she’s missed him. She wonders how long he’s been alone, that he’s this eager, chattering away like he’s been starved for company. 

Though his voice is different, she still loves the sound of it, the way he narrates each room. She loves the smell of him, though she has to keep stopping herself from getting too close, from breathing him in. She wants to—wants, so much, to simply stop, to close her arms around him and bury her face in his shoulder and just stay there, for as long as he’ll let her. 

But he doesn’t seem interested in that this go around, and his touches are fleeting at best. The occasional hand on her spine, or her arm. He doesn’t take her hand. 

She supposes she deserves it. 

After Manhattan, after Hydroflax, Fleming and Ramone, she understands why he’d be reluctant to touch her. Now that he knows, now that he’s seen the parts of her she’s tried so hard to keep hidden from him, to protect him from. 

She doesn’t blame him. Couldn’t fathom it, but it hurts—the way his body doesn’t lean toward hers anymore. The way he barely looks her in the eye. She wonders what he sees, now, when he looks at her—a thief, a murderer.

A monster. 

He touches her arm again to steer her from the room, and she flinches. His touch is too light, too absent, too unintentional. 

She doesn’t deserve it, regardless, but her chest aches and she has to take slow, measured breaths, has to dig her nails into her palms to keep from crying. 

There will be time for that, later. When he finally tells her the truth. 

When he leaves. 

She tries to pay attention, to ask questions and offer the occasional innuendo that doesn’t make him blush any more. Instead, he just looks at her strangely, like he doesn’t know how to process the words, and she bites her tongue the next time there’s an opportunity; the very thought of making him genuinely uncomfortable makes her feel ill. 

Pushing the feeling aside, she forces a smile as he explains how the waterfalls work, and where the stream goes. It’s beautiful, and wonderful, and she wants to know everything but all she feels is tired. 

It’s been so long since she’s seen him, so long since Manhattan and she’s been running nonstop and she just wants quiet. Wants one night without nightmares, without his words ringing in her ears, things he’d said in his grief to make her angry, things he said to finally make her leave. 

Looking down at the railing, she stares at their hands, both curled around the metal. There was a time when she wouldn’t have hesitated to cover his fingers with hers; a time when he would have done the same. Now, he keeps himself at a distance, the physical space between them almost more than she can bear. 

And still, she smiles.

She smiles when he takes her to a diamond cave and smiles when he shows her badminton courts and smiles when he grumbles about the new training room the TARDIS made. She smiles behind a flinch when he touches her elbow to guide her into the room, at the same time he declares how horrible guns are and how much he hates having a whole room of them on board. 

Though the room is dark, she steps away from him, closing her eyes briefly against the lance of pain in her chest. 

She knows he hates weapons. She isn’t sure why it’s taken her so long to realize she isn’t an exception. 

Behind her, she hears the Doctor shuffle around for a light switch, hears the door click shut behind him. 

“It was right here the last time I was here,” he mutters. 

She doesn’t want to know why he was in here. The air around them feels dense, and she can’t see anything in the black, not even with the sliver of light from under the door. 

“It’s fine,” she says. “We can come back another time.”

She reaches past him and fumbles for the door handle. 

“It’s stuck.”

“No it isn’t,” he says, and she huffs. 

“Yes, it is.”

She feels him press up against her, and stumbles out of the way, knocking into something that feels suspiciously like a broom. 

“Doctor.”

She feels her way along the wall: shelving, a few bottles, pails, and what she hopes are sponges. 

The Doctor is muttering at the door. 

“You locked us in a cupboard.”

“I did not. It’s the training room.”

“It’s the maintenance cupboard.”

He kicks the door and then grunts. “Why would I take us to the maintenance cupboard? It was supposed to be a grand tour.”

“Sonic?”

“My other coat,” he says, and his voice is strange, almost disembodied. She can’t see him at all. 

“Seriously?”

“No, you’ve been Punk’d,” he says, and she tries not to flinch at his tone. 

“There must be some way out of here,” she says, trying to feel around; but it’s a small space, barely big enough for three people, and it’s only a moment before she bumps into him, and quickly steps away, shrinking herself into the furthest corner. She knocks over what she thinks is a mop, hears it hit something hard and then clatter to the floor. 

“ _Ow_.”

She almost smiles. 

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he says, and her smile drops, her hearts like a lead weight. 

Part of her assumes he’s joking, but in the dark, without his smirk or glimmering eyes she can’t tell, and the words fall flat between them. She doesn’t have a reply, words stuck in her throat, and because he can’t see, she wraps her arms around her stomach in some kind of embrace. 

Oblivious, the Doctor sighs. “We’ll just have to wait until she lets us out.”

“She? The TARDIS?”

“Who else?” 

River frowns. “Why would the TARDIS lock us in a cupboard?”

There’s a beat, then, “Seriously?”

River glares, then realizes that won’t do any good and huffs loudly. “Forgive me for not being a mind reader.”

“If you were this would be a lot easier,” he says, low and almost reluctant, and her breathing stalls. 

She knew this was coming. She just thought, maybe, a few hours… that she could have just a few more hours with him, to say goodbye for good before he flies away. 

“River,” he starts, and she can hear the hesitation, the guilt, and slams her eyes shut.

“Don’t,” she manages. 

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say it.” She’s nearly begging, but she can’t bring herself to care. She can’t hear him say it’s over. That’s it’s been over for years. She knows, if he says it she’ll break and she can’t afford to, not here, not now. “I know—” Her voice catches and she clears her throat, tries again. “I know this isn’t what you want. I understand. I appreciate—everything.” Her eyes sting and she has to take two slow breaths to calm her trembling. 

“You appreciate it,” he echoes, and it sounds angry, bitter. 

“I just meant—I know what you’re trying to do, but it’s unnecessary. As soon as we’re out of here, I’ll leave you alone.”

He’s silent, and it weighs on her. In the dark; she starts to see faces, gaunt and howling. 

“If that’s what you want,” he says finally, flatly, and she resists the urge to laugh, almost hysterically.

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” she says. “What matters is that you—” She stops, hesitates. “What matters is that you’re happy,” she says quietly, and it feels like a secret, too hushed. 

“What makes you think I’m not?”

_Because you haven’t kissed me,_ she thinks. _Because you haven’t touched me. Because it’s been so long without me._

Instead, she forces a laugh. “I can’t imagine anyone would be thrilled to discover their wife’s a homicidal maniac.”

“I already knew that,” he says, and she flinches, hard. 

Breathless, she barely manages, “Well, you certainly seemed surprised.”

“I’m always surprised when I’m with you,” he says, and she can’t tell what he means, how he’s saying it, his voice low and gruff in the dark. 

“Surprised isn’t happy.”

“No,” he agrees. “No, it isn’t.”

Tears sting at her eyes and she shuts them tightly. There’s not enough air, not enough space and everything feels like it’s closing in on her, suffocating. 

_Please,_ she begs, hears the TARDIS hum soothingly in her mind. _Please let me out._

She can almost feel the ship’s disapproval, her defiance. 

The Doctor moves, does something she can’t see and then there’s a hand on her arm, but it feels misplaced, feels conciliatory, and she flinches. 

She hears what sounds like a sharp intake of breath, and his hand falls away. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll stop doing that.”

_Don’t,_ she thinks desperately, _please don’t stop, please touch me, please hold me—_

She can’t bring herself to say the words out loud. Instead, she clears her throat, tries to make herself small in the tight space. 

“No,” she says, too hoarse. “No, it’s not—it’s just—”

She doesn’t know how to explain. How his touch unravels her. How it feels like a brand, how she craves and needs it so much, and yet, dreads it. 

Because he’s too good. Too kind, too soft, and she knows she cuts him with her hard edges. Knows she’s too violent and too cruel and too sentimental for him, especially now. 

She can’t bear to imagine what he’d think of her if he knew, all the things she’s done since Manhattan. Since she lost the only three people she’s ever truly loved. 

He wouldn’t understand. He’s lost so much, over and over and somehow remains so, so _good_ , and she’s not like that, never has been. Fear has never made her kind, the way it does him; it makes her weak. Angry. 

Unworthy. 

“Just what?” he asks, and his voice sounds softer, somehow. Patient, in a way he’s never been, not with her. At least, not lately. 

She doesn’t know what to say, without saying everything. 

She pushes it aside, tries to keep her voice causal, keep it from cracking. 

“It’s just been a while,” she says, and hopes he doesn’t ask. She hopes he does. 

“Since Manhattan?” 

She nods, and a long silence stretches before she remembers he can’t see her. “Yes.” 

“How long?”

She shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. “Almost a year.” 

There’s a beat, and his tone is a strange mix of anger and hurt. “Then you lied to me.”

“About what?”

“You said two months.”

River frowns, trying to remember. “When did I say that?”

“At Amy’s. When I followed you, you said—”

“Spoilers,” she says, suddenly breathless, a faint hope knocking at her ribs. She hasn’t been back to her parents house, with its warmth and photographs and memories. She hadn’t wanted to see it empty, hadn’t been able to bring herself to go back, to clear it out. She knows she’ll have to, eventually—she knows he won’t do it. 

“What do you mean, spoilers? You’re a professor, you’ve done Manhattan, and then you left and I found you packing up their house—”

“Maybe you did, but I haven’t done it yet.”

“You haven’t,” he echoes. And then, “You haven’t done Arnos yet either, I assume?”

“No,” she says, her mouth dry, suddenly desperate and terrified of seeing her husband, that version of her husband, again. She’d thought that was the end, after—

“So the last time you saw me…” he trails off, and River closes her eyes, tries not to think about his words, the look of betrayal on his face. 

_This is your fault._

She shudders, exhales, waits for more of his ire. 

Instead, he touches her again, fumbling in the dark for her arm. “I’m sorry.”

River blinks. “What for?”

“Everything,” he says. “What I said. What I did. Time travel.” He huffs. “I followed you, River,” he says, and she shakes her head, almost frantic. 

“Don’t tell me—”

His hand tightens around her arm. “I followed you, and I did everything in my power to make it up to you. Or rather, I will.” He sighs. “I didn’t realize it had been so long.”

River swallows. “It’s not your fault,” she manages. 

“Yeah, it is.” She opens her mouth to protest, and he must know, because he steps closer, still holding her arm. “Don’t. Just because I will apologize doesn’t mean you have to forgive me now.”

“I always forgive you,” she murmurs. 

“Even for not loving you enough?”

The words knock the air from her lungs, and she pulls away from him, winded. She’d known, she’d _known_ he didn’t love her, not the way she loved him, but hearing it, she can’t breathe. Her hearts trip and she remembers her father, before he knew he was her father, asking her what she meant by _a far worse day_ and it’s this, she thinks, this moment, all her fears true and the blackness and she can’t stop the tears from slipping down her cheeks. She inhales, body trembling and she’s glad, suddenly, for the dark. If this is what had to happen, and even the TARDIS knew, she’s grateful he can’t see her face. 

“River—” he starts, uncertain, and it’s not his fault, no one’s fault but her own, and she shakes her head, her voice cracking just slightly on her reassurance, 

“You can’t help it.”

It falls flat, sounds unconvincing even to her own ears but she doesn’t blame him, doesn’t want him to think she does, but when she tries to speak, it’s all air. 

“I suppose,” he says, and she tries to breathe, to control herself, but when she exhales it’s a hitched sob, and she claps her hand over her mouth, humiliated and heartbroken and so, so lost. 

“You’re crying.”

He sounds surprised, and she doesn’t understand.

“I’m fine,” she manages, swipes at her cheeks, aware her tone is too curt, angry at herself. 

“Why?” he asks, and there’s no judgement, no reprimand, just concern, and she supposes she owes him, for whatever good it will do. 

“I knew—” she starts, stops when her voice breaks and tries again, softer. “I’ve known for a while. That you don’t feel the same. It’s just another thing to hear you say it, that’s all.”

He moves, and she can feel him closer, and she closes her eyes, wishes he wouldn’t. She wants to bury her head in his chest and cry but she can’t do that to him, won’t do it to herself, and she’s so distracted trying to keep herself together she almost misses his words, the floundering, 

“Say—? _No,_ River. That’s not—that’s not what I meant.”

Her hearts pinch. Her Doctor, always trying to make things better. 

“It’s alright, Doctor, really. It doesn’t matter—”

“Stop it,” he snaps, and she blinks, momentarily stunned. “Stop saying that, of course it matters.” He sighs, and steps a few paces away from her, and she doesn’t know what she’ll do, now. She knows she doesn’t need him—not to travel or survive or live her life but she _wants_ him, always has, always will, and she supposes this is her punishment, to love so fiercely the person who can never or will never love her back. 

She’d thought she’d made peace with that. Apparently she was wrong. 

Just as her tears start to well again, the Doctor reaches out, fumbling along her arm for her hands. She tries to pull away but he holds fast, stands so close, his forehead nearly pressed to hers. 

“I meant I haven’t _shown_ you. I haven’t been there for you. I haven’t _done_ enough.”

She inhales sharply, rehears his words, and they mean something different, so suddenly, but she doesn’t dare hope. 

“Doctor—”

His voice trembles, and she can feel his breath against her cheek. “You really think I don’t love you?”

Hope flutters in her chest and she can’t do this again, can’t be brave any longer. Her mother’s last words ring in her ears, _take care of him_ , but she barely remembers how to take care of herself. 

She wants to lie. On instinct, wants to apologize and lie and say it was all a misunderstanding, to chase the guilt and weight from his words. That of course she knows. Of course it’s all pretend. 

But she’s so tired. Of running and fighting and lying.

In the silence, the Doctor slides his hand up her arm, and she holds her breath as his fingers slip over her jaw, and his palm, soft and tentative, cradles her cheek. 

“I don’t know anymore,” she whispers, doesn’t mean to, wishes she could take it back but instead of the guilt she expects, the groveling, the Doctor’s quiet a moment, and then, so soft, his thumb brushing over her cheek, 

“Would it help if I said it?”

She freezes. “What?”

“Would it—”

She shakes her head. It can’t be real, can’t be true. Not once has he told her, never returned her whispers in the dark. She knows he can’t, and doesn’t want to demand it of him but she’s hungered for those words for so long, so much, each time he leaves her with a kiss and nothing else she’s _wished_. 

“You don’t have to—”

His hand falls to her waist and he holds fast. “Would it help, River,” he repeats. “The truth, please, for once.”

He sounds sincere, and desperate, and afraid, and for the first time she wonders if she was wrong. If all of this is wrong, and she’s just been without him so long she can’t remember what it feels like, his love. How he says it without saying anything at all. 

But she’s never heard it before. 

Amy and Rory never said it, not as children, not as teens. They never said it as her parents, though they certainly seemed to love her in some kind of way. She’s never been close enough to anyone else, and even if she had been, there’s only one person she’s ever wanted those words from and here he is, at last, offering them to her in the dark. 

“Please, River,” he whispers, like it matters. 

She swallows, breathes out, and admits, so quiet, “Only if you meant it.”

It’s as good as a yes, and the Doctor’s fingers dig briefly into her waist before he drops his hands, and she tries not to panic. 

“You know,” he starts, and she can hear his clothing shift, but can’t see what he’s doing. “Gallifreyan has over a thousand words for love. There’s a word you use for brothers, for sisters, for parents and friends and lovers and strangers.”

She knows, remembers learning them all, his voice in her ear, hand over hers as he taught her how to write, those beautiful circles it took her so long to perfect. 

“Time matters as well—most languages, they only think in past, present, and future, but Gallifreyan - there’s a word for “I love you right this second.” There’s a word for “I’ll love you tomorrow.” There’s a word for “I don’t love you yet, but I will.”” 

River bites her lip, feels like she’s waiting, feels like she’s falling, but the Doctor just keeps talking, almost casual, but she can tell he’s choosing each word with care. 

“We have words for inevitable love and unrequited love and fleeting love and dancing with someone you love. There’s even a word for falling in love, that roughly translates as “the sound of wind rushing in your ears.”” 

She can hear the smile in his voice, the fondness for his native tongue. 

“Marriages on Gallifrey only last one regeneration,” he continues, “Because personalities change, it’s unfair to assume people will stay together any longer than one life. Sometimes vows are renewed, sometimes people go their separate ways.” 

Her hearts plummet again, waiting for the truth, for him to step away. Instead, his voice softens, and he takes her hand again, stroking his thumb over her skin. 

“And very rarely, people will stay together through every one of their regenerations. Those people use a different word—there’s no exact translation, but it’s close to endless, boundless, eternal, with the understanding that life isn’t fleeting at all, not for a Time Lord. When humans say forever it just means time. A little more time.” He echoes her words, and she can hear his smile. “When we say it, it means unending.”

Her chest aches and her eyes burn and she can barely breathe. “Doctor.”

“I can’t say I love you, River,” he says, and she feels herself start to slip away, and then: “It’s too small, and too ordinary, and not nearly sentimental enough.”

River inhales sharply. “Sweetie—”

He pushes something into her hand, something soft and worn and she would know it anywhere, that old bow tie. Her fingers fumble for it, follow it, and she nearly gasps when she realizes one end is wrapped around his hand, the other loose for her. 

To choose. 

Leaning forward, his lips brushing her cheek before they reach her ear, he breathes the words she recognizes, words he just told her. It’s _I love you forever. I love you eternal. I love you boundlessly._ Her breathing hitches and she strives to stifle the sob, but it creeps up anyway, a shuddering gasp in the quiet room. 

“That’s why I don’t say it, River. Not because I don’t feel it. Because it’s just not enough.” His hand settled on her cheek, brushing tears away with his thumb. “Do you believe me?”

She sniffles, and almost laughs. She doesn’t know what to do, what to say, how to tamp down her hearts, which feel like they’re flying away. She wants to hug him, kiss him, hold him and never let go. She restrains herself, barely, and takes a deep breath before feeling in the dark for his hands. 

“Yes,” she murmurs, wrapping the other end of the bow tie around her hand, the gesture so familiar, so precious. 

The Doctor releases a breath she hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and she reaches out with her free hand, searching for his face in the dark. She brushes his cheek, and he instantly tilts against her, his other hand coming up to cover hers. 

“Good,” he says, his voice scratchy. “Good.” 

River smiles, and for the first time in so long, it’s real. 

“I love you,” she whispers, in his language, the same words repeated back and the Doctor shivers, and steps closer, crowding her, still clutching her hand. His forehead drops against hers and he tangles his free hand in her hair.

“River.”

“Shut up,” she whispers, and he seems to take it as permission, seems to open some floodgates she hadn’t been aware existed. He surges forward, pushing her back against a shelf and his mouth covers hers and she keeps her hand on his cheek, parts her lips and kisses him back. He makes a sound, gruff and somehow sweet, a moan that turns possessive when she tries to pull back. He grips her tighter, presses himself against her and he’s warm and gentle and all-consuming, his mouth moving over hers and his fingers against her neck. 

She startles when the lights come on, and the door clicks, but the Doctor doesn’t seem to notice, breathing heavily, his fingers brushing the remains of her tears from her cheeks. 

“Staying?” he asks, and she can hear the insecurity, sees it in his face still when she leans back, just far enough. 

Squeezing his hand, she smiles. “Yes,” she murmurs, the single word swallowed in his kiss. 


End file.
